


Star-Spangled

by halfmetalbitch



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst and Comfort, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Imagines, OC death, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve/You - Freeform, enhanced!reader, he doesn't mind your purple thong, mutant!reader, sexy fan art, so cute, steve rogers/you - Freeform, too sexy for Steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-12 19:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7119499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmetalbitch/pseuds/halfmetalbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve/Reader Drabbles and Imagines.</p><p>1) Steve picks up some laundry Reader dropped, much to your mortification. 2) Reader has super hearing and can't sleep in the Avengers tower. Steve helps. 3) Reader's boyfriend doesn't measure up to Steve Rogers, and Steve knows it. 4) Steve comforts Reader after her brother dies on a mission. 5) Reader is bored so Googles herself. She and Steve find some very interesting fan art 6) Reader plays the honeypot on a mission and Steve doesn't like it. 7) Reader gets drunk with Steve.</p><p>And more! (I'll also take requests if you have them.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Laundry Day

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are my life force. I am the Tinkerbell of fan fiction.

“Urgh,” you groan, heavy clothes basket digging into your hip as you enter the laundry room. You would definitely bruise later.

It wasn’t your fault you had to pick up some extra shifts and didn’t have time to do laundry. For a month. A girl has to have time for beauty sleep…and for her Netflix fix and girls’ night out!

Huge pile of clothes teetering in front of you, your foot gets stuck in a divot in the linoleum. With a yelp, you barely catch yourself before you turn the place into a party where the piñata was filled with dirty undies. 

The glass door schnicks open behind you.

“Woah, you need some help with that?” A male voice says.

“Um,” you hesitate, barely balancing the huge load, “I think I’ve got it..”

Approaching the washer, you drop the hamper and it lands with a resounding smack. Wiping the sweat back into your frazzled hair, you straighten your shimmery gold cocktail dress—the only clean thing left in your closet—and turn toward the stranger.

“Thanks, though…” The words die on your lips.

Before you, smiling sheepishly, one arm holding a basket full of clothes and the other rubbing the back of his neck, is your fucking adorable neighbor. Stan? No! Steve! That was his name. His shirt strains against his wide shoulders and round, muscular chest, and his sweatpants barely hide his dick pri—

“You going to a party?” he asks, interrupting your thought. He grins as he looks you up and down, a faint pink tinging his cheeks.

“What?” You glance down at yourself. “Oh! Er, no, I just… Laundry day?” You offer weakly as explanation.

His blue eyes drift over to your huge pile of dirty clothes, one perfect eyebrow raising. “Been a while, huh?” His pink cheeks deepen and color, and you’re sure yours must match his by now. “Since you did laundry, I mean,” he clarifies quickly.

You laugh under your breath, grimacing with a shrug. “Girls got better things to do than launder her ensembles, ya know?”

He chuckles. “I know exactly what you mean.” His expression turns serious. “Life gets in the way.”

Your eyes fall on a pile of dark clothing laying innocently on the floor between the two of you. Steve’s gaze seems to follow yours to the coil of purple lace.

Oh, god. Oh, god, no. Not those. Any pair of underwear but those.

Like watching a slow motion train wreck, Steve takes a step forward, bending down to retrieve the dropped clothing, just like a gentleman. He holds them in front of him, offering them to you. 

“You dropped…” His eyes focus on the dangling scrap in front of him—your most revealing thong, a monstrosity of lace purple butterflies and a string that nestles right between your buns like a book slides right into an opening on the book shelf. “…this.”

The burning in your cheeks is nearly unbearable as you snatch the thong from him, throwing it into the washer. “Thanks,” you squeak.

He clears his throat, frozen.

“I’m Y/N, by the way. Figure I better introduce myself since you’ve already seen my underwear and all.”

“Ah, sorry. How rude of me. Steve,” he introduces, holding out a hand. You shake it, and his palm is a bit…sweaty.

“Yeah, we’re neighbors, right? Thought I recognized you.”

He sets his basket down in front of a washer finally, loading his clothes into it. You take his cue and do the same.

“Yeah, I’m in B6,” he says, throwing sweat-stained shirts and…is that a red, white, and blue mask?...into the washing machine. “You’re…?”

“B4,” you tell him with a smile, finishing up and putting your quarters into the machine. It whirs to life, the woosh of water filling the drum interrupting the room’s quiet.

Lifting the now empty basket, you place it on top of the washer and head for the door, unable to get out of there fast enough. “Well, it was nice talking to you, Steve.”

He straightens, turning to face you. “Hey, if you, um, need help carrying that back to your place later, you can always give my door a knock…er, knock on my door.”

You open your mouth to answer.

“Not that you _can’t_ carry it, but if you wanted—“

You laugh at his uncertainty. Since when do guys with looks like that get so nervous about flirting? Steve really is a piece of work.

“I’d love that,” you tell him. “I’ll see you in”—you glance at the timer on the washing machine—“90 minutes.”

He grins, his whole face lighting up. “Can’t wait.”

You push through the door, your smile—and the butterflies in your stomach—uncontainable.


	2. Super Hearing Sucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve helps Reader with super-hearing get to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

Outside the Avengers Tower, the gray light of very early morning engulfs the trees. They sway in the wind, their leaves blowing every which way. A few droplets of rain splatter against the window spanning the length of the wall.

Glancing at the clock behind you, it reads 2:37.

Sighing, you press a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of your nose. Your eyes are heavy, so heavy, but closing them only makes it worse. The noise. All the noise.

Thunder rumbles through the building, followed by a quick crack of lightning. Beyond that is the never ending hum of miles-away traffic. And within the tower, a menagerie of snores, moans, tears. You could hear all of it, all the time. 

The ice in your whiskey clinks against the glass as you reach for it, then nestle back into the couch. You press the cool surface to your cheek. Sometimes it helps, the cold. Cryo sounds like a dream to you, though maybe that’s a callous thing to think.

It doesn’t surprise you when footsteps settle in the doorway, though you can’t see who it is. You don’t need to. That gait, the sound of of him slinking along, his painful politeness almost a sound you could hear by now.

“Steve,” you greet.

You’re met with a gentle snort of breath through his nose. “Nothing gets by you, huh?”

“Not a thing.” You wonder if he notices the wryness of your comment. He knows your powers. If he does, though, he doesn’t mention. “What are you doing up?”

“Oh, I, uh…” He stumbles over the words, stepping over to a cabinet. You hear it open, the crinkling of the coffee bag. “Thought I would get some gym time in.”

It’s your turn to snort, brows furrowing at the absurdity of his statement. “At 3am?”

You finally turn, peeking over the couch to watch him. His back is turned to you, shoulders broad and tightly packed into his gray shirt. It clings to his muscles, and you roll your eyes away, to anything but him.

“You’re one to judge. You’re awake, too, kid.” He turns around, resting against the counter with his arms crossed as his coffee brews. “What’s got you drinking whiskey at 3am?”

You turn away from him, toward the window as the rain pelts it harder now. “Nothing gets by you, huh?” You redirect his own words back at him.

The sharp, chalky sound of a coffee mug being pulled from the cabinet grates against your ears, then the slosh of coffee pouring. “Want to talk about it?” he asks delicately, politely.

You aren’t sure there’s anything to really talk about, but some company would be nice if your body won’t let you sleep. “Okay.”

His feet whisper on the floor. Outside, thunder rumbles again. Steve sits beside you, a spear of lightning making his blue eyes almost glow iridescent as they fall on you, shining with concern. He’s close, really close, his knee almost touching yours as he crosses one ankle over the other knee.

He quirks a brow. “I’m all ears.”

That stupid puppy dog smile. You turn away, twirling the glass in your hand. The ice clink, clink, clinks. The liquid is viscous within, a sheen like gasoline lingering on the surface.

“I can’t sleep,” you concede. “It’s been days.”

“Days?”

“Three.” You focus on the rain outside, sweeping through the trees, and avoid Steve’s worried look. Somewhere, many miles away, an ambulance blares through the streets.

“And whiskey helps?”

“I hoped. But here we are.” You finally turn to face him, and there’s something so soft in his gaze. It makes you want to turn away again.

He nods slowly. “Well…I’m not actually going to the gym.”

You laugh softly, biting your lip as you glance toward his bare feet. “I gathered that, unless you typically train shoeless and in your pajamas.”

“What can I say? The suit can be constricting.” He smiles down at you.

There’s a lull in the conversation, and it’s not unfriendly. Steve gulps his coffee, and the rain is soothing.

“I can hear everything,” you tell him, and he glances questioningly at you. “It’s why I can’t sleep.”

“Your enhanced senses,” he clarifies, to which you nod.

“Several miles away, there’s been a wreck. A few minutes ago, the ambulance arrived on the scene. A woman. She fell asleep driving. They’re putting a neck brace on her as we speak. Natasha is in bed reading; she’s turned the page twelve times since you sat on the couch. Tony is snoring—loudly. Sam is watching something I won’t mention, lest I offend your propriety. You woke up an hour ago. I heard you cry out, and then lay there—maybe deciding whether to sleep or get up, maybe deciding something else.” You glance at him, afraid of what you’ll find there. “It’s the third time this week.”

Steve’s eyes are very serious, and he exhales. “Wow.”

Now you’ve done it.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you or pry… It’s just, I can’t tune it out—God, I want to—and when you listen to someone long enough you try to figure them out. Their habits, their feelings, what they’re thinking in that very moment.”

You glance away from him. Maybe you’ve already said too much.

Steve takes another drink of coffee. “I can’t imagine. What helps you sleep?”

You laugh darkly. “Before…” Before the Avengers. “Honestly, sleeping pills, morphine…men.”

You glance at him to see if he understands the implication of those things. His face flushes the daintiest pink color.

You set your whiskey glass on the table, your fingers icy in its absence. It’s watered down now, and you have no stomach for it anyway. “I’m just fucked up.”

That tenderness is back in his gaze, hiding behind his disapproval of your word choice. You aren’t sure what it means. “I think we all are in our own ways.” He hesitates. “I don’t have sleeping pills or morphine, but…maybe I could help you sleep?”

Your head whips toward him, eyebrows inching to your hairline as your heart skips a wild beat.

“Not like that!” he quickly amends. “I mean, would it help if someone slept beside you?”

Probably not, but if Captain America offers to sleep with you, it’s your civic duty to say yes. “Maybe,” you concede quietly.

He sets down his half-empty coffee cup, pulling you into his arms as he lays back on the couch. His skin is so warm against yours. Stiffly, you settle into his embrace. His heart pounds under your ear, heartbeat slightly more elevated than usual. His muscles envelop you, holding you in place against his strong chest. He smells like aftershave and something distinctly Steve.

“Mm,” you mumble into his shirt. Nothing has felt this good in a long time. Even if you don’t sleep, you don’t mind staying here for a while.

Steve chuckles, the rumble low in his chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You sigh against him.

His fingers rub circles against your back, and outside the rain falls in a steady rhythm. “Sorry if I snore.” He sounds sleepy now.

“Don’t worry. You don’t,” you say, closing your eyes.


	3. Boyfriend Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader's boyfriend faces Steve's wrath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you like :)

_“Said he keeps on playing games. His loving ain’t the same. I don’t know what to say, but what a shame. If you were mine, you would not get the same. If you were mine, you would top everything.” – Bryson Tiller, ‘Don’t’_

You storm into the Avengers Tower kitchen, hands shaking—whether with anger, fear, adrenaline, or all three, you couldn’t say.

It’s quiet, not a soul walking the halls at this hour, thankfully.

Your phone rings—again—the happy chirp shattering the quiet. You pull it from your pocket and place it on the counter where it spins frantic little circles as it vibrates.

Your boyfriend’s name lights up the screen, a picture of him appearing behind it. The last thing you want to see right now.

A loud breath escapes you, and you collapse against the counter, covering your head with your arms. The cool surface pressed against your forehead sooths you, helps you think. You groan, and your throat aches, dry and scratchy.

Water.

Reaching for a glass by the sink, you turn the faucet on. The glass fills up and your hand quivers uncontrollably. You curse yourself for getting worked up over something so silly. So he hit you. You’re an Avenger for fuck sake. Dudes hit you on the daily. It’s nothing new.

You concentrate on bringing the glass to your mouth, willing yourself to calm with each breath.

“You’re shaking.”

The voice makes you gasp and drop the glass. It shatters into a million pieces, water sloshing to the floor and shards littering your feet.

“Steve,” you say, sounding breathless.

Captain Rogers stands in the kitchen doorway in his suit, blue eyes burning into you, looking put together as always. And here you stand, shaking, hair a mess, make up faded from your smeared tears.

“What happened?” he asks, and his voice is too dark and very serious.

“Nothing.” You turn aside to search for the broom. “It’s fine.”

Steve crosses the room to you in three strides. He grasps your arm, gently, and gives you no choice but to turn back to him. “It’s not nothing.”  
No desire or energy left in you to fight him too, you sigh and give him a full view of your face.

He gasps your name, brushing your hair aside and revealing the ugly purple bruise blossoming across your cheek.

“I’ve had a lot worse.” You pull away from him. “You know that. You’ve seen it.”

Anger pulls his brows together, seeps from the tightness in his broad shoulders. “Yeah, from HYDRA agents. From the bad guys. People we’re fighting against. Not from—“

The chirping and buzzing of your phone interrupts him, and you both glance over at the device spinning on the counter.

Steve approaches it, grasping the phone and glancing back at you darkly. You don’t bother to stop him, even though you know he would listen to you. With a tap, you know he’s accepted the call.

Your boyfriend speaks so loudly into his phone that you can hear him all the way over here even though it’s not on speakerphone.

“Please listen! I’m sorry, babe. I just got angry! Please come downstairs and talk!”

You cringe at his words, face burning with shame and blood pounding in your bruised cheek. Steve’s features crumple with anger and hatred. Your phone whines as he grips it tighter. He seems to catch himself before it shatters and places it delicately back on the counter.

You see his intention before he even takes a step. “Steve, wait.”

He doesn’t listen. He’s outside the kitchen and striding down the hall in a heartbeat. You run to catch up with him as he takes the stairs down to the entrance.

“What are you doing with this guy?” he spits, and it sounds more like he’s asking himself than he’s asking you.

You growl, hurrying to keep up with his longer legs.

“I don’t need you to protect me!” You yell at him.

Steve spins on you, and suddenly you find your back against the hard wall. His eyes are full of blue fire.

“No, I know you don’t need me to. But I want to, because you deserve better than this low-life punk.” He softens, lifting a hand to push the hair from your face, reveal your bruise. “I don’t ever wanna see you like that again, banged up and shaking in the kitchen. It does things to me, kid.”

You sigh, nodding as you rest your cheek against his warm fingers. “You don’t have to worry about it anymore, okay? He’s not worth your time or mine.”

Steve nods after a long moment, the tension leaving his shoulders. His hand leaves your face, and it’s so hard not to beg him to touch you again.

He steps away from you, heading up the stairs. “Let’s get you an ice pack and into bed.”

With a small smile, you follow.


	4. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve comforts you upon the news of your brother's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and kudo if you like. :) I'm open to prompt suggestions.

Clint gives you a soft smile as you step into the conference room, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Beside him, Natasha doesn’t even bother to smile at all.

You take your seat across from them. Everyone seemed to be handling you with kid gloves today. Bruce brought you tea not too long ago. Tony hasn’t pestered you with his stupid pranks all day.

And the boys hadn’t returned from their mission yet. You hadn’t seen Steve, Bucky, or your brother even though they should have been back at the tower by now.

Then an emergency meeting was called. Something was definitely up.

The door opens, and all three of you turn your heads toward the sound. Fury strides in, black coat sweeping through the entrance. He doesn’t meet your questioning gaze, but walks straight to the head of the table where he leans against it, shoulders slumped and head down.

Nerves clog your throat, fill up your belly in a way that makes you feel sick.

There’s movement from the corner of your eye, and you turn to see Steve, followed by Bucky. Relief floods you, and you can’t help the smile twisting your lips upward.

It’s a smile that neither of them see, because the two men don’t spare a glance for you.

They look, for lack of a better word, haggard. Both of them with dark circles beneath their eyes from lack of sleep, bruised and cut up, their clothing torn and in tatters. The way they hold themselves…defeated.

Steve takes a seat at the end of the table opposite you, and Bucky sits across from him. That leaves one empty chair at the table—the one beside you. The one your brother usually sits in. 

Where is he?

You stare molten daggers at Steve, willing—begging, praying—that he will look at you and tell you everything is fine. That your brother will waltz through the door any second, looking just as tired and battered, but with that goofy grin on his face he can never seem to get rid of. He’s just running late. He’s never on time. That’s what he needs you for—to keep him in line.

But Steve keeps his eyes on the table, same as everyone else. Your heart slams in your chest, possibilities racing through your head.

“Y/N,” Fury begins.

“No.” You shake your head. Whatever he’s about to say, you don’t want to hear it. You want to go back in time, to an hour ago before what Fury’s about to say was even a possibility. How desperately you wish that was your power.

Across the table, Steve squeezes his eyes shut. The entire room is so quiet, too quiet, and the weight of it all presses down on you, squeezes you until you can’t breathe.

Fury sighs.

“Why won’t any of you look at me?” you demand. “Where is my brother?”

“Steve,” Fury says, finally glancing up and crossing his arms.

Across the table, Steve shakes his head. “Buck got cornered and I…I wasn’t paying attention, wasn’t worried about myself. But your brother, he had my back and he…he took a bullet for me.”

Steve finally looks up from the table, meeting your gaze, and there are unshed tears in his haunted blue eyes.

“And he died,” he gasps. It sounds as if he doesn’t even believe the words himself, like he’s still in shock.

Behind you the glass wall cracks from ceiling to floor with an audible snap. All of your teammates flinch, glancing up in surprise. You always have such perfect control over your powers, but now…now they swirl and rage within you, just like the sobs building in your chest.

The feeling stabs at you as Steve’s words sink in. You press a hand to your chest, as if that will help keep you together, but you’re shattered.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N),” Steve pleads. “I should’ve saved him. I told you I’d always take care of him, and I failed you.”

Each word is another stab wound to your aching chest. The chair legs squeak as you push the chair back, standing, and behind you the broken glass webs and creaks with the force of your barely contained power.

All around you, there’s a chorus of your name, repeated again and again in different tones and timbres and gradients of worry.

You gasp for breath. Your little brother. The only one who’s always been there for you through everything. The one you were supposed to protect and care for—forever.

And now he’s gone.

Forever.

You step backward and stumble for the door. There’s a symphony of chairs squeaking against concrete as everyone stands. But you only make it a few steps outside of the room before the weight of it all becomes too much.

You fall to your knees, a tortured scream leaving your mouth. You curl in on yourself, covering your face with your hands as it contorts in soundless sobs.

“Y/N.” It’s Steve’s voice.

Hands grip your shoulders, and you’re pulled into his arms. He smells of sweat and dirt, and the metallic tang of blood. Maybe your brother’s blood, maybe not. The thought makes you want to gag.

“Give them some space,” someone directs.

You sob into Steve’s chest, his grasp so tight around you. It’s an ugly cry, a snot and red face kind of cry. But you don’t care. You don’t have the energy to.

“I’m sorry.” His voice quavers as he rocks you back and forth on the hard concrete floor. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“He’s gone,” you moan miserably.

Steve brushes your hair down with a palm. “I won’t leave you, (Y/N). I’m here.”

And he doesn’t leave you.


	5. Fan Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader is bored so Googles herself. She and Steve find some very interesting fan art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just watched We Need To Talk About Kevin and wanted to write something light and fluffy to offset my now heavy and dark mood! I think this one might deserve a part two. What do you guys think? ;)

You curl into the kitchen chair, one leg hanging off and bumping the chair leg in a steady rhythm. The glow of your computer illuminates the dim light of the room. It’s late—very late—and you can’t sleep. Typical.

Sometimes you’re lucky and someone else will be down here—usually Steve or Bucky. The no-sleep squad. You’ve come to look upon your midnight rendezvous with fondness now. But tonight you walked into an empty room, no one to take your mind off the thoughts pervading it.

So what better to do than Google yourself?

The normal results had come up: a ton of Avengers news, a lot of cosplay, and some speculation from gossip magazines.

You click on a link, and the page quickly loads. A picture pops up—your side pressed against Steve’s as you walk down the sidewalk together. You’re both smiling, faces turned toward each other, and his hand is behind you. You remember that day, the feeling of his hand against the small of your back, just for a fleeting second.

The picture makes you smile. You two could have been anyone. Just two normal people with normal lives.

Above the photo, the caption reads Are (Y/N) and Captain America dating?! Pair caught on a steamy—

“Whatcha looking at?”

Steve’s voice makes you nearly leap out of the chair, and you quickly click off the page, hoping he didn’t notice what you were looking at.

Your face burns with embarrassment. “Um, nothing.”

Steve walks to the fridge, giving you an unconvinced look. He opens it, bending over to search inside. You bite your lip, dragging your hungry eyes away from his body.

“I mean, I was bored and couldn’t sleep so I Googled myself.”

Steve turns to you, eyebrow raised and pile of food in his hands. “Whoa, kid. What you do in the privacy of the kitchen at midnight is your own business.”

You laugh, and his smile is so bright it seems to outshine the light of your laptop. He leans against the counter beside you and takes a bite of leftover quesadilla.

“I know you know what I mean, old man,” you tease him, leaning forward and resting your chin on your palm.

“You caught me. Find anything interesting?”

You turn to the screen again, scanning its contents. “Well, the tabloids seem to think we’re secretly dating. Silly, right?”

His smiles fades a bit, and you try not to psychoanalyze it. A picture catches your eye, some fan art. You click on it and the art expands in size and—

“Oh…my god,” you mumble.

Steve’s expression turns very serious, his smile fading completely and his blue eyes hardening into ice. “What?” he asks. “What is it?”

“I just found some fanart and it is…”

On your computer screen is an image of you in a slutted up version of your Avengers gear. Your hair falls in your face in a sexy way, and your tongue runs over your full lips. Your hands push down your bottoms to reveal the top of a landing strip. Everything about the art is teasing, sensual, everything you hope to be. You wish you knew the artist so you could commend them.

“It’s something else,” you finish.

There’s movement as Steve steps behind you, quesadilla in hand. You turn the computer toward him so he can see—and he immediately chokes as he takes in the image. You laugh at his reaction.

“Wow,” he rasps as he beats a fist against his chest and hacks one last time then clears his throat. “You’re right. That is something else.”

You tilt your head, admiring the image. “At least they got the landing strip right.”

Beside you, Steve says nothing, and you turn to him. Even in the glow of the computer screen, you can see the deep red shade his face is turning.

You shove his shoulder good-naturedly. “Oh, come on, Stevie. You didn’t look at pin ups back in your day?

“I wasn’t standing right next to the real thing when I did,” he grumbles.

“Oh, shucks.” Curious, you absentmindedly click the arrow button and bring up the next image.

It takes you a moment to process what you’re seeing—but when you do, you gasp.

It’s more fan art, but this time it’s of you and Steve together. Like, together together. Steve is in his Captain America uniform, all toned muscle and bulging parts, as he bends you over a table. Your pants are pulled down, your bare ass exposed to him. Your face contorts in pure ecstasy and you realize that Steve’s spreading you open, filling you up—

A white bolt of heat thrums through your lower belly, and you slam the laptop shut. “You know what? That’s enough Internet for the day. I’m pretty tired. Gotta get up early in the morning, you know,” you babble as you grab your computer.

“Yeah!” Steve agrees, both of you scrambling out of the kitchen and into the hall, his pile of food forgotten on the counter. “Yeah! I have this thing, too, in the morning, and…”

You both pause in the hallway, facing one another, neither able to find the right words.

God, he’s so tall, his shoulders so wide, his chest so strong. You never really allowed yourself to entertain the idea of you and Steve. It never seemed possible, despite all the late night rendezvous of cooking midnight snacks together and telling war stories. He stares down at you with his blue shock eyes. Is it just you, or are they darker than normal?

You bite your lip. What you wouldn’t give for him to push you back against the wall and show you what his lips could do. For him to do to you exactly what he was in that picture.

Steve clears his throat. “Goodnight, miss.”

“Goodnight, Steve.” You curse the rough, grainy sound of your voice, no doubt giving your thoughts away.

You gulp, then turn tail and rush toward your room, kicking yourself for not acting when you had the chance. Ugh! Just kiss him! It’s not that hard, dummy.

Next time, you decided, as you listened to his fading footsteps. Next time you would kiss him.


End file.
